


From the Outside

by imperfectkreis



Category: Prey (Video Game 2017)
Genre: Anal Fingering, M/M, Masturbation, Narcissism, Phone Sex, Robot Sex, Self-cest, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 13:45:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11060238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectkreis/pseuds/imperfectkreis
Summary: (Includes some spoilers from the first hour of the game, plus implied quest objectives from later in the plot)"Morgan,” his own voice echos back. “Is something wrong?”Everything is wrong. But it's not as if January can make things right.





	From the Outside

Morgan leans against the operator dispenser, bandaging his hands with medical gauze. Tipping his head back against the glass, he wishes he could just summon a medical operator to do this for him, but the dispenser is empty.

He's barred the door, pushing the single cot and storage rack in front of the only way in or out of the medbay, in case somehow the Typhon break the door down. If he waits long enough, they’ll forget he's even here.

Morgan wants to forget he's here. Fuck, he's gone ahead and forgotten everything else already. He drags his bandaged hands down his face. They come away bloody. Great, he's bleeding from somewhere else, too.

Grabbing a surgical tray off the cot, he holds it out so he can see his reflection. By now, forty-two hours since this nightmare began, he's seen his face a dozen times. He's seen it in the reflection off of the station’s windows, in bathroom mirrors, in the Looking Glass recording he left for himself. But none of the images look familiar. None of them look like him.

But the Looking Glass self and the face in the mirror match. Small eyes, with warm brown irises, strong chin, stubbled over with a week’s worth of hair growth, attactive lips, high cheekbones. Everything lines up perfectly.

Morgan finds a tube of surgical glue, trying to knit together where his browbone has split. Once the glue seals, he tries to smudge away the blood. It pills up on his gloves, falling away as dark crud on the floor. 

The Phantoms stalk the halls. He can hear their static through the door. Morgan wonders if they can hear him breathing. Though he knows it's futile, he covers his mouth and nose with his hand. It still smells of blood.

It takes a long time for the Typhon to lose interest in him. Once it's quiet outside, Morgan unlocks the door. He stays low as he creeps out of the medbay, hanging close to the walls until he finds an air duct, leading up to a maintenance hatch.

He's exceedingly careful climbing up, reaching for the duct above and hoisting himself into position. The aluminum echos if he strikes it too hard, so he tries to shimmy over to the hatch. 

His pistol is shit, and he doesn't have enough bullets anyway. There are six blank Neuromods stuffed in his suit. He hasn't used any of them yet. They're the reason his memory is full of holes. That's what past-him said in the Looking Glass. That's why past-him made January. 

That's why the Typhon are loose on the station, crawling through the hallways, scattering across the floors, clinging to the walls.

And Morgan can't remember any of it.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He has to keep moving, crawling through the maintenance shaft, trying to keep out of sight. His arms burn from exhaustion. His eyes are tired and his lungs shallow as he breathes. He has to rest, but it can't be here.

Getting the hatch open on the other side isn't easy. The handle is jammed. Morgan hits it with his wrench, trying to force it loose. After two smacks, he listens closely for Typhon on the other side. When he gets only silence in return, he pulls the handle, opening up his escape route.

Morgan drops down into an empty volunteer cell, finding the door locked from the outside and the glass impenetrable. Great, fucking great. He throws his wrench against the glass door cursing as it bounces back pathetically at his feet.

He sits on the edge of the tightly made bed. The mattress is too hard to really give under his weight. Still, he falls backwards, until he's lying down properly, staring up at the blank ceiling.

In a minute, he'll have to climb back up through the vents, try to find another route. But, for the moment he inhales the stale, starchy scent of the unsoiled sheets. He rolls from his back onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow.

He looks forward at the empty wall, no different really than the ceiling. His chin finally puts a dent in the mattress, sinking as he relaxes his neck. Or at least tries.

“January?” he asks, flipping his TranScribe on.

“Morgan,” his own voice echos back. It's odd, really, that it sounds so strange. But January isn't a person, just an Operator, who uses his voice samples. They're piecing together sound fragments into sentences. So maybe it makes sense that their speech sounds wrong in his ears. “Is something wrong?”

Everything is wrong. But it's not as if January can make things right.

“Morgan?” Alex’s voice comes through, superseding January in the priority list. “You've been in psychotronics for hours. Are you alright?”

Morgan opens his mouth, but still has no fucking clue what to say. Alex repeats his name.

“I'm here,” Morgan rasps.

“You scared me,” Alex sighs, “get out of there. As soon as you can. It's not safe.”

Morgan can't help but laugh, even as the line goes dead. As if anywhere else he could go is about to be safer. Well, at least for the time being, he's sealed in this cell.

Pushing himself up, he looks out into the room beyond the glass. There's another door still between him and the Typhon. He can see their oily figures, like black tar, pacing the hallway. But unless they can get the metal department door open, they're not getting anywhere near Morgan’s cell.

“You know how I hate agreeing with Alex,” January comes back on the line.

Morgan sighs, then puts his face back in the pillow, “Diff ah ate gree’n wth lex oo?”

“I didn't understand that.”

Morgan pulls his face out of the pillow long enough to respond, “Did I hate agreeing with Alex too?”

January remains quiet for a beat, before responding, “Yes, I believe you did. You were greatly frustrated by his precautions. You had differing priorities for your research, and Talos I. But by the time you made me, your opinions had shifted.”

How many other breadcrumbs did he leave for himself?

Morgan rolls onto his back, his fingers playing with the zipper tab of his uniform. The room is quiet, and when the climate controls switch on, circulating cool air through the tiny cell, the white noise drowns out the remaining hiss of the restless Typhon.

Taking the tab between his fingers, he starts to pull his zipper down, unhooking the flap over top to he can unzip to his hip. The shirt underneath his uniform is damp at the armpits, over the center of his chest, where his hair scratches against the soft fabric.

“Morgan?” January asks, “It’s not much further now. I know this must be difficult. But you must keep moving.”

Right, right. Morgan zips back up, strapping his uniform in place. Standing on the bed, he hoists himself up, crawling back into the vent. Time to find another way.

\--

G.U.T.S. leaves him seasick, or something like it. The radiation makes his bones ache. Curling up against the wall, he takes his radiation pills, washing them down with tepid canned tea. It’s too cloying, filled up with sweeteners. He’s not sure he likes it.

He can hear the Typhon overhead, wild and unhindered in the open cavern of the Arboretum. Their clicking, hissing racket makes it difficult for Morgan to think. He needs a map. He can’t remember the layout of the station. 

“January?” he asks.

“Morgan?”

Choosing his question carelessly, he asks, “Was I a good person?”

“I only knew you for two days. Before your Neuromods were removed and replaced again.”

“Two days, huh?” he thinks about the other him in the Glass. Calm, collected, earnest. He wasn’t scared then. But his memories would have already been trashed. That’s why he made January, right? To make sure he didn’t forget what he has to do. Even if he’s forgotten who he is. “Anything, January, tell me anything about myself. Anything you remember seeing.”

“You had a habit of breaking the tab off of your tea cans. Then putting the tab in your mouth while you worked.”

Morgan frowns, picking up the half-empty can at his side. He pulls the tab back and forth, back and forth, until it snaps loose. Opening his mouth, he puts the metal tab on his tongue, tasting the bite of metal. He sucks on it, moves it towards his front teeth, bites down. Using his tongue, he pushes it back towards his molars, bites down again. There is a strange comfort to it.

Reaching into his mouth, he pulls the tab back out, dropping it into the mouth of the can. 

“Thank you, January,” he says, before trying to figure out his next move. 

\--

Morgan walks into his suite, locking the door behind him. He considers barring the door as well, pushing his side table in the way, to at least slow down anything that might be after him. But the room is so clean, so pristine, despite the horrors outside, that he can’t bear to move a thing.

This, he remembers. What is it? Alex could make a single day Morgan’s entire life? That’s what happened. Playing March 15th, 2032 over and over again. This apartment, something like it is his most vivid memory. His only memory. He wonders why this apartment and the one in the simulation are so similar.

He goes to the kitchen, opening every cabinet. Checking every box and can, he makes sure none of them are mimics. He checks his books, his bottles of wine, his fucking sock drawer. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Everything is in its place. Nothing is amiss.

In the bathroom, the water works. Whatever the Typhon are doing, they’re not fucking with the pipes. He lets the water run hot, while he strips out of his uniform and underwear, leaving them in a pile on the floor.

He sets his TransScribe on the edge of the sink, tapping January’s number. The bathroom starts to fill with steam.

“January?”

“Morgan?”

“Tell me something else, about myself.”

There’s a pause while January processes. “I never saw you sleep.”

“Really? Did I say anything about it?”

“No. While out of the simulation, you either worked with me, or with Alex. It is possible that you slept before my creation. I am unsure. I assume you did.”

“Okay,” Morgan shakes his head, “I guess I’ll talk to you later.”

“What are you doing now?” January asks.

“Taking a shower? I’m in my suite.”

“Alright. But we need to find those recordings,” January reminds him.

Morgan steps into the shower without confirming with January that _he knows._

\--

After his shower, Morgan pulls a robe from the closet. Dark blue and extravagantly plush, he pulls it on, wrapping it around his bare skin and knotting the belt loosely around his waist. 

He goes to his desk, sitting down in front of the monitor, and reads his emails. Nothing sparks any memory. And he's read them all before, up in his office. There's no reason it should be any different here. He turns the monitor off.

He wishes he had a clean uniform to put on, but he doesn't. The closet and drawers are filled with suits, ties, dress slacks, expensive leather shoes. Things he's fairly sure he'd have little occasion to wear on Talos I. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he stares into the open wardrobe, and wonders what sort of man he was.

Laying down, Morgan sinks into the mattress. So, so much nicer than the shitty cot in the volunteer containment cell. The front of his robe falls open, fine spun cotton sliding against his still shower-warm skin.

He rubs the flat of his hand against his chest, feeling how his chest hair scrapes against his palm. Bringing his hand up to his face, he runs his fingers over his beard, then up to where his skin turns smooth again, his cheeks, his lips.

Morgan spreads his legs further apart, bending slightly at the knee. Trailing his hand back down, he brushes over his navel, untying the loose knot at his waist, so the robe can fall away.

“January?”

“Morgan?”

“Tell me about myself,” he whispers, closing his eyes.

It's almost funny. Morgan supposes, that now he knows he's an egoist. Listening to his own voice, talking about a self he can't remember, as he runs his hand over his hip, between his legs.

He exhales loudly. January must hear it.

“Morgan, are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he responds. “I just want to hear you talk.”

He wraps his hand around the base of his cock, squeezing gently and dragging his hand up towards the tip. Doesn't matter about his memories, this is in his muscle reflex. Morgan pulls one knee towards his chest, stroking himself as he breathes.

“You bit your nail, but only once,” January supplies.

“Tell me more about that,” Morgan insists, slowing the steady rhythm of his hand, trying to keep himself close, but he's not ready to finish.

“You were placing locks on my data banks. Event-release parameters. You looked at your hands three times before putting your left index finger into your mouth.”

Morgan repeats the motion. Keeping his right hand on his cock, he puts his finger into his mouth, licking against the tip. All of his nails are short. When he broke the simulation, they looked freshly cut. The implications of that are strange. Did he cut his nails, did someone else?

His nail is too short to properly bite, but he presses his teeth into it. When it tears, too deep, it hurts. Morgan pulls his finger out of his mouth, staring where his nail is broken.

“After you had torn the nail, you appeared upset. With yourself. And kept your hands away from your face from that point on.”

Morgan puts his fingers in his mouth again, this time two at once, pushing them deeper, to the back of his throat, pulling them back only when he thinks he might gag. They come away covered in saliva. Shiny and wet.

He doesn't know what forces the next question from his mouth, like bubbling foam, clinging to the corners of his mouth. But maybe it is simply because he feels safe and clean and warm.

“January, you said I didn't sleep. But did you ever,” Morgan smiles, “see me touch myself? Or did you see me fuck?”

“Morgan,” January warns. 

Or maybe it's Morgan’s mind playing tricks on him. That January can even execute that sort of vocal modulation. But he finds that he likes it, likes that January doesn't want to tell him all they've seen. So Morgan pushes, “Tell me.”

He slips his wet fingers between his legs, angling them so he can brush against his hole. It's not enough, so he licks them again, before trying to push in past the rim.

“After finding Jason Chang’s password, you asked him if he wanted to ‘suck my dick with that pretty mouth.’”

Morgan laughs, just as he works his index finger inside himself. He tries to push deeper, looking for the pleasant pressure he knows is there. “And?”

“He crawled under your desk with little additional prompting, you liked it. Told him he was a man of many talents. He smiled.” January pauses, long enough for the TranScribe screen to go dark. Morgan wonders if they've terminated the call. “Morgan, what are you doing?”

“What do you think I'm doing, January?”

“You're trying to trick me into helping you.”

“Clever, clever,” Morgan smiles, collecting precum from the tip of his cock and dragging it down the shaft. 

“More clever than you. You could have just asked, Morgan.”

“I don't need to take you out to dinner first?” Morgan jokes, the absurdity of the situation makes his tongue loose. “Or am I not the type?”

“I don't believe you are, Morgan.”

And he's not imagining it, he's sure. January is practically beaming. A sort of giddy excitement that seems completely beyond their programming. Or maybe, maybe Morgan is just that fucking good.

Morgan smiles, unabashedly, curling his fingers inside himself and quickening the pace of his other hand. He lifts his hips up off the bed, driving deep as he comes back down. “I've seen what I look like in the mirror,” Morgan slurs, his mind already started to get fuzzy, “bet you wished you looked like me too, don't you, January? Getting more than just my voice?”

“Maybe that's your wish, Morgan. Would you fuck me if I did? If I looked like you? Had your face, your arms, your ass, your cock.”

“So what if I would?” He feels his stomach getting tight, his thighs straining with tension and anticipation. “I could show you a good time, January. If you let me.”

“What makes you think you wouldn't be the one ass up for me, Morgan?”

“Fucking hell,” Morgan groans. There's an image in his head, indistinct, cold, but wanted. Flipping an identical body over, putting his hand at the back of their neck, holding them in place as he knocks their legs apart. Slipping his cock inside.

“Down boy,” January mocks.

And Morgan comes all over his fist and his lower abdomen. Once he's come, he can't pull his fingers out of his ass fast enough, letting his body go lax against the sheets. He blinks a few times, trying to chase away the spots from behind his eyes. Rolling to one side, he grabs two tissues from the bedside table, wiping his stomach first, then his hands. He should wash his hands.

“I'm so glad I thought ahead, to make you want me,” Morgan smiles. Now he's fucking hungry.

January replies, “I'm not you. But I'm enough of you. I guess the vanity stuck.”

Morgan gets up, leaving his robe open in the front, and pads to the kitchen. Washing his hands in the sink, he kicks open the fridge. 

Without thinking, he grabs a cold can of tea. This time, when he drinks, he likes it. Maybe the temperature makes a difference. Maybe it's just coming back to him.

The brain damage is permanent, but that doesn't mean everything is lost.

While he waits for his boxed dim sum to heat, he breaks the tab off of his tea can, putting it back between his molars and biting down. Once the microwave beeps, he pulls out his meal, leaving it on the counter to cool.

Morgan goes back to his computer, reads his mail again. With new eyes, he hopes. The messages still aren't familiar. But this time, he feels oddly at peace with it.

“Morgan?”

“January?”

“You seemed particularly concerned with your past personality.”

“I was,” he corrects himself, “I am.”

“I should tell you, your behaviors since leaving the simulation have not entirely been consistent with the Morgan Yu who programmed me. But I don't find the differences concerning in the least.”

“Thanks for the vote of approval,” Morgan scoffs.

January continues, “Have you been finding the answers you need?”

Morgan shrugs his shoulders, even though January can't see him, “Maybe. Maybe I just feel more like myself. Whatever that means. One thing I do know, I can only go forward from here. Not back.”

“That's true.”

Getting up from his desk, Morgan heads to the bathroom. He picks up his uniform off the floor, unzipping the pocket where he's been storing Neuromods.

This is muscle reflex too, he realizes, as he raises the gun into position. He stares into his reflection in the bathroom mirror, as he puts the muzzle of the Neuromod gun to his eye socket.

“Here's to Morgan Yu. Whoever I may be.”

Billions of connections, rewritten in a matter of nanoseconds. Maybe Morgan forgets. But he’s just one man, standing at the threshold of humanity’s future. And he won't be forgotten.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read! Comments and kudos are always very much appreciated.
> 
> [tumblr](http://imperfectkreis.tumblr.com)


End file.
